


Reconciliation

by Cheers



Series: Singularity [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheers/pseuds/Cheers
Summary: A bit of wish fulfilment for fellow Burnham/Tyler fangirls, set a year after the season finale; fluffy, occasionally silly and shamelessly romantic





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> I may be unapologetic about writing fluff, for once, but I *am* embarrassed at hawking my own stuff… still, if you read _Undefined_ before this one, they pack a greater punch together – I came up with this ficlet as the counterpart and counterpoint to that one. Special thanks to Shejams, whose encouraging comments prompted me _to boldly go_ beyond the finale plot

 

_“I am no good for either side, but maybe I can be good for both.”_

Ash Tyler / Voq, _Will You Take My Hand_

 

_One year later_

 

“Personal Log, First Officer Michael Burnham, stardate 5112.3, 2258…”

She puts the log recorder on pause as soon as she has uttered the date, and then shuts it off, too struck by the notion.

It has been a year since the end of the war.

It is almost hard to believe; it seems both longer and shorter than that, with all that has happened since, with the way the Discovery has been jumping around on the mycelial network, alternating between helping civilians displaced by the war and hauling emergency supplies to war-ravaged Starfleet vessels. Its spore drive capability, once useful for surprise attacks, turned out downright invaluable for these tasks; and fortunately, there was less and less need for these as time went on and the wounds healed.

L’Rell may have held on, so far, to her claim to the throne of the Klingon Empire, but there were breakaway factions among the Klingon Great Houses that had kept attacking Federation vessels even after their intervention on Qo’nos had ended with L’Rell assuming control and declaring a universal armistice. Still, their uncoordinated attacks were increasingly less successful and, as a result, eventually became very infrequent as resources were depleted. On top of the burden of their losses, recent rumours of intelligence reports received by Starfleet Command told of progress made by an influential alliance between the leading Houses of D’Ghor and Mo’kai that had been working, with L’Rell’s blessing, to reunite the Klingon race and persuade the other Great House leaders to enter into an official treaty with the Federation; what sounded like an insurmountable task – or worse, a crazy dream – but was nonetheless a noble one.

One way or another, now, a year since the truce, Michael is finally certain that she has shed her old guilt about the war, and is ready to go forward.

What she is not sure about is which way _is_ forward, in a multi-dimensional universe where everything is relative.

***

“ _First Officer Burhnam, report to Captain Saru’s quarters._ ”

The tannoy announcement brings her back to reality, and momentarily makes her wonder. Usually Saru has no issues discussing day-to-day matters and missions on the bridge; so this must be something out of the ordinary, or something secret, that, for whatever reason, he does not believe other crewmates should be privy to.

“Michael.” His greeting once she has shut the hatchway, both informal and friendly, puts her at ease; at least he has not called her to inform her of some impending disaster. But his manner seems more tentative than usual. “Do sit down.” Rather than the chair opposite his desk, he indicates the seats in the adjacent conversation area facing the viewport. Curiouser and curiouser, as they say. Could this be a personal matter altogether rather than a point of Starfleet business?

“I have received… interesting news.” That tentative tone again, reminiscent of Saru as he was back on the _Shenzhou_. “It concerns all of us but I wanted… to share it with you first.”

“Thank you for your trust, Saru.”

She really did not expect him to seem – embarrassed, there really is no better word for describing it. Or perhaps there is; Saru seems almost ashamed.

But when he speaks, it does not immediately occur to her why in the universe he should be.

“I have been informed by Starfleet Command that they have been contacted by the representatives of the Klingon Empire…” He pauses, watching for her reaction, and while she knows his motives to be compassionate, she is annoyed at the scrutiny, especially since she is not at all certain if she can pass it with her pretend unruffled expression. “…who declared their wish to open negotiations with a view to signing a formal peace treaty.” He sounds incongruously official, as if quoting a diplomatic dispatch to her verbatim.

“I am glad to hear it.” She hopes her voice sounds steady enough.

“The… surprising… aspect of it is that the Klingon message requested that the USS Discovery be the ship sent to the initial rendezvous with the Klingon counterpart, and that I lead the negotiating party composed of Discovery officers.”

“Do we know – are there any theories as to the likely reason?” Maybe L’Rell’s stint in the Discovery brig convinced her that this particular crew can be trusted, unlike other humans from a Klingon perspective. _Surely it cannot be…_

Saru shakes his head a tiny fraction, deep-set turquoise eyes still studying her face. “One or two top-ranking officers in Starfleet Command had… concerns… that it might be an attempt by the Klingons to get their hands on the drive technology, but the Klingon message stated that up to three starships could accompany the Discovery as an escort, which would complicate any such attempt.”

Which really brings her back to her wild guess – hope – of a few seconds ago. “So you think it could be – “ She cannot quite bring herself to finish.

And suddenly, Saru looks crestfallen. “It occurred to me,” he says in an unusually calm voice, even for him, “that the reason for the Klingons’ choice of negotiating counterparty could be that we were personally known to some of them… to some of their representatives,” he corrects himself. They both know who he means; ever since the man known as Ash Tyler stayed behind on Qo’nos, they wondered what had become of him after he, in search of his identity, aligned himself with the race that his body and half his mind had once belonged to and that had once treated him so monstrously. L’Rell might care for him and her influence could have kept him safe – Michael sure hopes so – but with contacts between humans and Klingons still at the lowest ebb they have been in decades, news from the Klingon Empire is rare, and news of its individual members, or their allies, or guests or lovers or whatever, is non-existent. “But I took the liberty of requesting a list of delegates from the Klingon side, and it does not…” he hesitates, “does not appear at first sight that Lieutenant Tyler is among that party.”

Which means Saru has known this for some time already; enough time, at any rate, to contact the Klingons and ask them for the list, and to study that same list. She should not be surprised; least of all could she hold it against him, what with the way she lied to him once about his brethren in the Mirror Universe; and she can see that he has been doing a similar thing here, trying to spare her the anxious wait and likely disappointment; and yet she is irrationally piqued.

He sees it, and knowing the reasons as well as she does, he says nothing, giving her time to absorb the facts.

“If you’d like,” he says finally, “you can look at the list to see if any of the names seems familiar.”

“Sure,” she says mechanically. Saru may have kept the news from her about their ambassadorial duties, but there is no reason not to trust him about the contents of that list; so a second check is unlikely to produce a different result.

Still, they pore over it together, Klingon names looking strange and abrupt in the English transliteration. She recognizes Dennas, leader of the House of D’Ghor; most of the rest seem like fairly typical Klingon monikers; there are one or two that look like personified honorifics, like _Honorary Counsellor to the House of Mo’kai_ and _Spiritual Leader of the Initiated_ ; but there is nothing remotely similar to either Tyler or, for that matter, Voq, or even Torchbearer.

“Thank you, Saru,” she says finally, “for sharing the news with me.” And for sharing its potentially painful part with her in the privacy of his quarters. “Whoever they are, I look forward to negotiating the treaty with them.”

At least they will be striving for a worthy goal.

***

“Michael,” Saru calls to her, softly, as they are waiting to disembark from the shuttle in the landing bay of the Klingon ship; an unexpected departure from Starfleet etiquette in the presence of their colleagues from the delegation.

She looks up at him instead of an answer.

“You are nervous. I know,” he insists, seeing as she is about to protest, “and I just want you to know that I’ll be there to help, if…”

He does not need to explain the _if_. There is no reason to think Tyler will be there, but maybe that in itself will be bad enough for her emotions to play up.

“Thank you, Saru… Captain.” And in an even more obvious departure from etiquette, she squeezes his arm to make the point.

They exit their two shuttles into a vast landing bay, and it takes a few moments for her eyes to get accustomed to the dim lighting. They are met by a ceremonial guard, but she notes that the top officials are not there; instead, a young Klingon dressed in garb that likely passes for diplomatic robes addresses them via a universal translator.

“It is an honour to greet the representatives of the Federation. If you follow me, I shall convey you to the meeting chamber.”

They do follow him, and a couple of minutes later they are led into a brightly lit, very spacious hall; and she finally sees the Klingon negotiating party at its other end.

And then her mind goes curiously blank.

***

“Michael,” Saru mutters next to her, and she realises, a few moments too late, that she is staring transfixed at who appears to be the real leader of the Klingon delegation standing next to Dennas, head of the D’Ghor.

 _Honorary Counsellor to the House of Mo’kai_. Makes sense. Of course. What, was she really expecting him to be listed as _Voq,_ let alone _Lieutenant Ash Tyler_?

He looks different; at once familiar and strange. In terms of sheer appearance, his hair, instead of flopping loose around his face in a lush long fringe, is braided close to his scalp in a fashion reminiscent of the Klingon cranial ridges; and his formal garments decidedly follow Klingon stylings, albeit free from the traditional profusion of metal spikes; but the eyes… the eyes are pure Ash Tyler – man, Klingon, whatever – large and dark and magnetic; and her breath catches in her throat because he is staring right back at her across the cavernous chamber; and it takes all her willpower to break that gaze to meet Saru’s concerned eyes, and she only does so because their fellow delegates, not just Saru but the others, including the Klingons, are noticing, too.

Presently he mirrors her gesture, turning away to speak to Dennas – in Klingon, the glottal tones unexpectedly less jarring when delivered in his voice. It makes sense, of course, that his fluency in both languages would make him an asset to any bilateral negotiations; and she can imagine that his history with L’Rell, coupled with Voq’s memories preserved in his mind, must have carried enough clout to allow the Klingons to see past his human body and accept him as an ally and a valued advisor, if not quite one of them. And the easy but assured way he carries himself with Dennas and others in the Klingon party makes her hope that the seemingly incompatible parts of his personality are no longer mortally at odds; and he is stronger for it, finally healed, finally whole.

Still, apparently, taken off guard by her mere presence.

Then again, she cannot let wishful thinking cloud her judgement. He is an advisor to L’Rell’s clan; he is probably, likely, still her lover. She gave up any claim she may have had on him a year ago; at his quarters on board the Discovery, and in the caverns of Qo’nos.

And yet her eyes are drawn to him again as he speaks up, addressing their party.

“Greetings to the esteemed delegates from the United Federation of Planets,” he starts in English, and the voice she has not heard in a year makes her heart skip a beat. Different now, steady, confident, authoritative; and still the same. “We appreciate your acceptance of our proposal and your agreement to meet in Klingon space. It was the most practicable solution in order to bring together all the parties involved on the Klingon side.” She notes that the Klingons are not using universal translators to decipher his words; apparently they trust him enough to speak on their behalf.

She also notes how he only referred to “us” when talking about the parlay request, but not when talking about the Klingons per se. Whatever his official status, he works on their side but still does not identify as one of them.

“Counsellor,” Saru responds, using the official title that they saw listed in the message the other day. “We are honoured to be here, especially since it offers our respective sides a chance to transform the present armistice into a lasting peace, and we are fully committed to finding a mutually acceptable solution.” The Klingons have now activated their translation devices, but while Saru speaks in plain English, she struggles to follow the address.

In her case, she could, conceivably, put her reaction at seeing him down to the surprise factor. After her chat with Saru she had practically given up hope – well technically speaking, had discounted the chances – of Tyler being part of the Klingon delegation. But his reaction is the same, and _he knew_ ; her name was plainly stated in their official response listing the members of the negotiating party. He, Michael realises, was the one who requested that the Discovery represent the Federation in their talks.

He knew, and he was still looking at her like that.

***

It is both a relief and a disappointment when the initial ceremony ends.

They have agreed on the procedure and schedule for the talks, but the talks themselves are only expected to start the next day. For the time being, the two parties have exchanged preliminary information briefs, which, it has been agreed, they shall study in the hours between now and the next day, so as to seek to establish a common footing. The information is divided into topics – rules of contact between the fleets, territorial matters, species rights, financial and reparations aspects– and for the most part, apart from the initial and final sessions of each day, the negotiations will proceed in smaller committees dedicated to each topic.

She knows, objectively, that it is makes sense that she is not in the same group as Tyler. He is on the fleet committee and she on the species rights one, and surely this way they will be more use to the process, each concentrating on their area of expertise – to say nothing of the fact that had they been on the same committee they would probably just keep stalling and staring at each other – but there is a tiny silly irrational part of her that wishes they could do just that.

As it is, she muses as she and Saru are walking back to the landing bay where the two Federation shuttles are docked, she will see him at the beginning and end of each day, but there is no telling if he will be willing to seek her out beyond the looks across the table; and no telling if any gesture of rapprochement on her side will be read by the Klingons as an outrageous breach of protocol, and discouraged by him as a result.

They reach the landing bay, and apparently she can disregard all her earlier doubts because he is there waiting for them. For _her_ , if the direction of his gaze is any indication. And once again, she has to remind herself to keep walking; to keep breathing, for that matter.

“Counsellor,” Saru greets him formally, if in a friendly tone, with a slight bow. “Let me say that it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Captain,” he says, mirroring the gesture. “First Officer.” It is all official, and yet it feels as if there are sparks shooting through her nerve endings. “The pleasure is all mine.”

It is obvious by this point that he did not come here to talk business, but he also seems to be somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed. And if he is waiting for some kind of signal from her, she is struggling to think of one that would be both unequivocal and appropriate for the setting… unlike, say, rushing into a hug.

Luckily, Saru sees through all this. “I am afraid I must leave you with First Officer Burnham. I need to go through my briefing notes and seeing how I am on two committees, I have quite a lot of reading to do. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Counsellor. Michael,” he goes on in an unexpectedly informal address, “I shall take the shuttle with the rest of our party, and you can take the other one when you’re ready.”

 _Thank you_. She cannot quite say it out loud or else it would be utterly embarrassing, but she hopes that her eyes looking at Saru convey her gratitude plainly enough. “Aye, Captain.”

***

They watch the shuttle depart, and it allows her a couple of minutes to gather her thoughts – try to, anyway; with the way her pulse is racing, it amounts more to a wishful-thinking resolution than a practicable plan. She does not even immediately notice that for the past minute or so, Tyler was no longer watching the shuttle set off on its trajectory back to the Discovery; instead he was studying her face.

And then they are alone in the landing bay, and she turns to face him; and they just stand there.

So much to say, so much to ask; ultimately, none of it matters.

Then, tentatively, she raises her hand and extends it toward him, not even sure where she is going with this. Surely she is not planning on a handshake; but putting her palm against his chest, which is what she will end up doing if she keeps going, could be read as too-abruptly intimate, almost aggressive; and she is not sure if it will throw him off balance.

She is still busy trying to ponder her options when he meets her halfway, as it were, taking her hand in his… and then he brings it up to his face and presses those exquisitely sensual lips against her open palm.

At this point, all she can do is try to keep herself from audibly gasping.

Whether to stop herself from swooning or for less rational reasons – she suspects it really is the latter – she takes a step toward him and puts her other arm around his neck, sinking onto his chest; and he lets go of her hand and takes her in his arms; and as she wraps her arms around him in response, it seems to her that time has stopped; there is only this instant, and Tyler holding her.

It seems – feels – like she has been waiting an eternity for just this moment.

“I missed you,” she exhales against his shoulder. He says nothing, just holds her tighter; and when she looks up at him she can see the reason for his silence; his eyes are closed but he is clearly, obviously, too overwhelmed to talk. And it must be contagious, because her throat suddenly feels so tight that she could not possibly utter another word.

***

She cannot tell how long they stayed like this. She could probably do it for a few more hours, so she mentally kicks herself for, figuratively speaking, putting a foot in it when she ends up being the one to break the spell.

She did not intend to; but when she runs her hand over the back of his head – a habitual gesture that she reflexively remembered from their time together – she is struck by the jarring sensation when instead of the glorious silky mop she recalls, her fingers brush against the rigid braids.

She hopes he will not notice, but sure enough, he does.

“I asked them to do it at first as a way to fit in, sort of, seeing how I had to deal with them. That, and as a matter of convenience, and then I just got used to it. Still, not the best choice of hairstyle, I know _._ ”

Not that he owes her any explanations on this or any other matter. But the way he looks at her with an expression bordering on embarrassment, oddly, gives her hope – and lets her dare.

“Well,” she begins, half-teasingly, “if that’s what you think, then I’ll be happy to undo them for you.” The mental image is unexpectedly tantalizing.

The suggestion is met with a surprisingly radiant smile. “Be my guest.”

“What about…”

Her initial internal reaction is to curse her own tongue; she is loving this moment so much, she wants to prolong it even knowing that it is bound not to last, that he is likely committed to another. Until she reminds herself of the _death of a thousand cuts_.

“L’Rell?” he prompts, likely noticing how her face fell at her own unfinished question; and she feels like her insides are in a freefall. And then seeing this, he puts his large, strong hands on her shoulders, steadying her, and looking straight at her, he continues. “We’re allies. That’s it. I am her advisor. Her spokesman. Her bodyguard when circumstances call for it. But we are not lovers. After all that happened, I couldn’t… just go back to pretending things could be the way they’d once been between us… Not after I’d been with you, and learned what love really meant,” he finishes, and she has to step free from his tentative hold and turn away to stop him from seeing her expression, because she is so overjoyed and embarrassed all at once that it is just too silly; and she stands two feet away from him, shaking her head in a simultaneous fit of silent laughter and joyful tears, like an overexcited child.

“Well?” he offers when she has calmed herself somewhat and turned back to him, bowing his head in her direction in a playful invitation to make good on her promise.

It would take a while, probably hours, to undo all those braids in reality; but while she cannot immediately start on such an epic task, she can offer a token of affection that will, hopefully, be equally welcome. When she steps back up to him, tips up her chin and very lightly kisses him, his reaction leaves her in no doubt of that.

And then they are back to where they started, sort of; standing in the middle of the huge landing bay, which suddenly seems too public a setting for the two of them.

She is mentally fumbling for the best way to say it when he takes the initiative.

“If you’d like… I would be honoured… happy to invite you to literally be my guest, if you’d want to – if you’d like to visit my quarters.”

All of a sudden, the influential counsellor sounds exactly like the broken and insecure man she knew a year or so ago; yet all his stammering delivery achieves now is to make the invitation even more transparent. But surely, Michael should not be the one to be worried about his honourable intentions…

“I’d like to.” She does not need to feign conviction here; she is dead certain that if she had the slightest doubt about where she would like to set the boundaries, he would respect her wishes. “What about you, would the other – the Klingons hold it against you if they saw us – “

He shakes his head. “They know me by now. They’ll probably see it as us discussing final arrangements for the negotiations. After all, if our goal is reconciliation,” he adds, “then taking care of all important details is the best way of going about it.”

And she thought _she_ was the master of the accidental double entendre.

***

They end up walking to his quarters; the ship’s only transporter functions between the landing bay and the private council chamber of the head of the House, while the rest have to make do on their feet; and technically, he is Dennas’ guest, even when he apparently outranks the Klingon leader. On the plus side, it gives her time to calm down somewhat; the way her pulse was going a short while back, she was in danger of getting a major case of hyperventilation.

“Such an accomplished race, and they still did not think of installing a few extra transporter devices here,” she observes when they have reached the deck housing what look to be the private quarters of the senior contingent, and hopes that he takes her remark as the light-hearted quip she intended. “How did you survive out here?” She is only half joking now.

“Klingon life may lack in certain modern comforts, but it has its… worthy aspects,” he replies, apparently taking her question in the lighter vein. He stops in front of one of the hatchways and puts his palm against the scanner pad next to it; the hatch slides silently open, and slides shut again as soon as they have stepped inside.

When he turns to face her in the dim light of the suite, she is struck by the change in his expression. He looks dead serious; the right word, she believes, is _earnest_. “And I had a reason to stay here that kept me going.”

“The reconciliation,” she guesses. Both among the Klingons and between them and the Federation.

He nods, but takes his time before continuing.

“A worthy cause indeed,” she says, stating the obvious if only to fill the silence. “And I am happy you succeeded.” _Happy_ is suddenly too lightweight a word to convey her meaning.

“I did it because of you.” He almost interrupts her. She thought he had turned serious moments ago; she had not seen anything, given the intensity of his gaze now. “The last time I saw you, I said I wanted to do something that you would think well of, and I meant it. And the fact that I had a… Klingon side to me… helped me get accepted here so as to accomplish my task.” He trails off, and she is too overwhelmed to answer. Instead, she brings up her hand to stroke his cheek, and watches with a curious stirring sensation as he closes his eyes and leans into her touch.

“It means the world to me,” she says finally. And then, just to stop herself from tearing up, she adds, with a grin that probably comes out all lopsided, “…but I said nothing back then about getting your hair braided.”

His reaction is a rather dirty look that makes her smile in earnest; and seeing that, he chuckles in response. It strikes her that this, apart from all else, is a new thing for the two of them; they had plenty of moments of intense tenderness and warmth in their past relationship, but both of them were still too damaged to be capable of being this light-hearted.

Not for long, it looks like, as he turns solemn once more; he has now pulled her closer to him, ever so gently, his hands resting lightly on her waist.

“I love you Michael… I never stopped loving you.”

It is not unexpected, and he said it many times before; but now, it strikes her with the force of a supernova.

“Me neither,” she breathes as she keeps staring into his eyes. She had just been waiting for the right time to say it again.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and leans toward him, tips her head up to his face, and runs her tongue over those gorgeous lips before pushing it inside just enough to part them, and keeps stroking him like this, at once teasing and caressing; an invitation, a promise.

His only initial response, unless she counts the fast, shallow breathing, is to softly suck on her tongue; he lets her have her way, taking what she is willing to give, and his almost-submissive attitude, when he is now, objectively, a powerful figure of officially higher standing than her, is somehow a greater turn-on than she may have anticipated. And if she had any doubts as to whether he is at ease in this role, she is thrilled when she steps right next to him, pressing her body against his, and can tell that he is just as aroused as she is.

This is a different, more fluid dynamic from what they had fallen into before, when she was initially insecure about her lack of experience and then really careful not to seem too aggressive, knowing his history, if not his dual identity. The fact that he can willingly, happily, let her take control after all he has been through is the ultimate expression of trust; and she cannot help but want to reciprocate.

Damn it, she just wants _him_ like crazy. Human, Klingon, whatever.

And they are too, well, _vertical_ for what she has in mind, she figures as she takes a step back, her hand slipping down onto his arm.

“I’ve been wondering if there happens to be a bed in here somewhere,” She inquires mock-innocently, making a show of looking around what appears to be a spacious lounge.

“Second hatch on your left.” He sounds decidedly out of breath.

Once inside the sleeping cabin, she half jumps, half falls onto the bed, pulling him with her… but cannot help making a face when she puts her hands on the back of his head to bring him on top of her.

“You know, when we’re done… _negotiating_ … I _will_ undo these, one by one.”

His reply is delivered against her lips in the softest, most sensual whisper. “I’m all yours, _First Officer_ ”.

And if, for the briefest of instants, she is surprised at the official address, it is rendered moot by the intoxicating, breathtaking, mind-blowing kiss that follows.

 

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am pretty bad at typing up sex scenes so will beg you to use your imagination to decide what exactly happens next ;)
> 
> …and that’s that. I am looking forward to enjoying other writers’ Discovery stories, and keeping my fingers crossed for Ash and Michael in the show. In the meantime I still hope that I can finish a WIP featuring a beloved pairing in a “resurrected dead character” AU variety that I left languishing in limbo in another fandom for an entire year. _Live long and prosper_ , dear readers :)


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